


Lost In Translation

by SmutWithPlot



Category: Overwatch (Video Game)
Genre: Blackwatch Jesse McCree, Jesse McCree was left-handed, M/M, memory repression
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-05-08
Updated: 2017-05-08
Packaged: 2018-10-29 10:47:25
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,658
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10852395
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SmutWithPlot/pseuds/SmutWithPlot
Summary: I heard a click. The kind of sound you never want to hear when you're in the dark in a stranger's home. Especially when that stranger is sharpshooter.





	Lost In Translation

I heard a click. The kind of sound you never want to hear when you're in the dark in a stranger's home. Especially when that stranger is sharpshooter.

"Whoever the hell you are, you picked the wrong fuckin' house, friend."

The light snapped on, and I braced, my eyes flinching shut, then blinking on.

Jesse McCree stood in the hall, and his eyes looked tired, but sharp. His lips were pressed into a thin line. There was no recognition in those eyes. Just the cold, black dead eyes that I had seen so many times... Sometimes in the mirror.

I slowly raised my hands in supplication and surrender.

He moved forward, quick. He patted down my shirt, my pants, and he even tugged at the waistband. I imagine he was looking for guns or weapons. Bare feet traced the backs of my calfs, and then he took a step back.

"Who the fuck are you?"

My heart tightened, and I considered what he would think of the truth. "I am Hanzo Shimada. I--"

"Shimada," he cut off. His stance went from paranoid to angry, and his lips snarled. "Like _Genji_  Shimada?"

I shut my mouth, and my face twisted. I remembered that Genji and he had been in Blackwatch together... "From Blackwatch."

"Like _fuck_  from Blackwatch," he snarled. "You watch your mouth. Or I'll put a bullet in ya."

I felt my breathing break. My chest heaved, and tears were threatening. "Jesse, please..."

"WHO THE FUCK ARE YOU?" he demanded again.

"I am Hanzo Shimada," I said, my voice quivering. "We work together."

"On what?"

"Overwatch." My voice broke. "Jesse, this is my second night here."

"I don't like your lyin'."

I sniffed, and I felt a tear slip down my cheek as he peered at me. It was not the first time I had looked down the barrel of a gun, but I did not like it. It reminded me too much of home, and not the good parts.

There was a hesitation in his eyes, but he didn't put the gun down. He shifted himself sideways, so he could check the room behind him and still keep me in his sights. He began to back out of the hall. "Move forward. _Slowly_."

I sniffed and coughed, but I obeyed, hands still where he could see them. I felt naked, despite wearing pajama pants and a shirt. I had no knife, no bow, no weapon. I did not think I would need one.

"Couch," he ordered, waving to it with the gun.

I did as he said, and I did not like putting the back of my head to him. I had seen that happen, and I had done an execution myself more than once. I began to quietly sob, but I watched him move into the hall. A door banged open, and a light clicked on. I heard him rifle around with things I had not heard before. It was a long moment, and I could have run, but I didn't. I did not know what to do... Eventually the light went away, and the door shut again. His heavy footsteps came back down the hall, but when he appeared at the end, the gun was at his side, and not pointed at me.

"Why are you here?" he asked.

"You invited me," I answered. I looked him in the eye, to tell him I was telling the truth, tears on my cheeks. "We had dinner and--"

"I don't like your _lyin'_ ," he said again, the hand not holding a gun in an angry, quivering fist. He was a beast, hard and toned muscle, shirtless in the moonlight, but he did not look helpless. "So try it again"

I nodded. "I am... Hanzo Shimada. Brother to... Genji Shimada. Who you know. From Blackwatch." His gun hand clenched again. "A-and now in Overwatch! Please, he brought me in, I am the Two Dragons. We work together! Jesse, please!"

That fist clenched high. "...No one is supposed to know about Blackwatch."

"Yes. But it disbanded. The war between Morrison and Reyes. You were there."

His eyes flickered in doubt.

I leaned towards him. "Remember. There was fallout. Overwatch was cancelled."

"Blackwatch was never disbanded," he answered, confused. "No one is supposed to know about it."

I blinked. He was speaking crazy. Or was he...? My eyes widened. "Blackwatch is still on?"

Jesse's eyes widened this time, and the gun went up. "Now, hold up. I done told you shit you ain't supposed to know--"

"No no, Jesse, please! You can trust me! I promise!" I was hyperventilating now. _Not my Jesse..._  "I won't tell anyone! Not Jack or Winston or Alpha, or--"

"How the hell you know about Winston?!" Now he was spooked, which was _worse_. I ducked low, hands over my head.

"Because! I'm in Overwatch! I know! Jesse, remember! We just had training Tuesday! Jack ran drills. Little Hana took last score of the day, you tagged Lucio twice. We worked

together the second game, but against the rest..."

I watched his eyes question, but think... And they softened, his gun hand lowering, hesitant.

"...Remember. McCree-san. Remember. It is me. Hanzo. Ninja boy."

His eyes clicked to me again. And they narrowed. Like... he was trying to remember. Like it was just out of his reach. But he lowered the gun.

"...Please. This is the second night I've stayed with you. The first... that we shared a bed." I shook my head. "First time, I was on the couch, I did not know."

He tried to squeeze his eyes shut, and the strength in him seemed to falter. He leaned against the wall, and his hand fiddled with the side of the gun, before rubbing his eyes. Even doing that, his eyes widened, and he stared at his left hand in shock... and the arm.

"What the hell...?"

"McCree-san," I called to him. "Please. Put down the gun."

"Just put safety on," he muttered, as it dropped from his fingers, and he turned his arm. "What the hell happened to me...?"

"I... do not know," I tell him, honest. "It is not in your case file." I frown. "Which probably means..."

"Blackwatch," he finishes, and he's staring at nothing. "Motherfucker blew off mah damn arm." His right hand tangles in his hair.

I creep closer. "McCree-san. I do not want your gun. I only to come to you."

Tears are going down his cheeks. "Gave me a god damn omnic arm." He looks to me in horror. "Who does that?"

I come to him, and place my hands on his knees. "I do not know. Maybe... They did not want you to be crippled."

"Who shoots off a damn man's shootin' hand?" His voice was a wet, quivering thing. And he looks to his right. "I had my gun in my right hand."

I feel ill. My hands take his - both of them. "McCree-san. I am here."

His hands squeeze around mine. He stares at the metal one. And then at me. "We work together?"

"Hai," I say. "You run offense. High Noon Deadeye, you can shoot anyone you want. You use this thing..." I tug at his left hand. "...To 'fan the hammer', something you can not do with flesh, yes? Is good! You are FAST! You are deadly." I try to smile at him, even though I just found how deadly he can be first hand, and I did not like it. "You are noisy, though. But I blame those damned spurs of yours."

I nod behind me to where his boots are propped up next to mine. His eyes follow, and he frowns at them.

And something in him clicks. "You take your shoes off when you come in," he says. "Makes me feel foolish to tromp around in spurrs, so I do it too." He looks back to me. "I was thinking of buying you a shoe rack."

I giggle. "My second time? What, you must like me!" I squeeze his fingers, and my heart races. "Is that true?"

It is like he is looking at me for the first time, his eyes trace the lines of my face. His hand moves, and I let it. He touches me, and I lean in to his hand. I touch his knee, and I smile at him.

"...You're beautiful," he murmurs. And then he frowns. "You're Genji's brother?"

I narrow my eyes. "I do not think he knows about us yet. Would be a bad time to tell him." I settle into a more comfortable position on my legs, between his.

He shakes his head. "But that means... You're Yakuza." His warm fingers are exploring my ear and my neck and my hair like they have not been there before.

" _Was_  Yakuza," I say sadly. "I do not live there. Nor does Genji-kun. He brought me to Overwatch." I want to kiss him, to give him something else to remember, and because the pain in his eyes is breaking my heart. I lean forward, but I don't. "That is how we met. You are... one of our best fighters. Always... happy. And laughing. So kind and open and giving to everyone." I stare at his lips, parted, confused... "You are especially kind to me." I lick my lips. "You are my first."

He blinks at me, listening. "Your first guy?"

I bite my lip. "My _first_. Anything."

He seizes at that, his head going back to the wall, and his hand is a fist at my shoulder. "Hell. Why would you pick me?"

I shrug a little. "Because you think I am beautiful." My eyes beg him to understand, and my hand puts his back to my skin. "I love the way you look at me. And touch me. You make me feel wanted. And good." I blink away more tears, and my voice croaks. "Because I was Yakuza. Like you were in Deadlock. Now we are in Overwatch, trying to make the world a better place."

His hand goes back to my skin, and brushes away that tear. I squeeze my eyes shut, and he leans forward and kisses my temple. I let out an exhale, feeling his lips on my skin again. "Please... I need you to remember."

"I'm sorry," he whispers against my skin. "I wish I did."

I sniff, another tear slipping down my cheek. _I just found you, and I have already lost you_. My fingers tighten on him, and my heart is breaking...

"Hey... Come on, now." His hand squeezes mine, and I open red eyes to look at him. There are the eyes I know and love, adoring and loving... Even if there is a confusion and a wonder to them that troubles me. "If what you're saying is true... And I have little reason to doubt it is..." He brushes his thumb over my cheek. "You just so happened to find me in a bad time. And I'm sorry about that." His lips twist. "I live a simple life. Sometimes... I wake up and I don't know where I am. I didn't mean to scare you." He looks down the hallway, and back to me. "Can I trust you?"

I nod, and I sniff. "Hai. Please. Yes."

"Alright. Help me up real quick."

I push off of his knees, and then reach for him, and he pulls himself up. He looks me up and down, and there is a soft smile. "I, ah..." He clicks his lips. "Here. Let me show you something." He moved down the hall. To the left is the open door of the bedroom that I had snuck out of, quiet as a ninja. Opposite a door, I have seen it open it is an office. There is the bathroom I was in when I accidentally woke hip - it is still ajar. But at the end of the hall is another door.

He tests the door. It sticks. He does it another way, and it opens. He steps inside and flips on a light, with me behind him, and I step in.

I cover my mouth.

The first word I think of is 'armory'. There are guns... everywhere. New ones, heavy machinery that are illegal for citizens to own. Pistols. Shotguns - some of them sawed off. Hunting rifles. Sniper rifles. There's an entire wall of old guns - muskets. Flintlock Pistols. Blunderbuss. Revolvers. They line the walls like a small shooting gallery or museum. In the middle are heavy boxes, military grade cases, all stamped with J. MCCREE on them. In the corners are coat racks. Green and camo and black jackets, each with his name stamped on them. Hats to go with. Hunting jackets. A Civil War-era Confederate uniform is pressed under glass. It can't be his, but it has his name on it. There are duffel bags and suit cases that are a discreet black that I know still get use. Mostly because there's one sitting on the table in the middle.

I feel like I could be sick.

He moves to the case still in the middle, and there are pieces of a gun neatly set inside foam inserts. He starts by pulling out the ammo, and slides it into a drawer - there are boxes and boxes and boxes of ammo, in different shapes and sizes - and then the pieces. With surprising speed, he reassembles the thing. Looking down, he peers through the scope, and then looks about. He finds them empty spot and puts it back where it goes. He then shuts the case and stashes it under a table with more.

"...My first thought when I see a stranger in my house is they're after my guns," he said, leaning onto the glass. "Just the relics are worth a good fortune. But an ambitious gang banger could start a small war with the shit I got in here." He worked his jaw. "This is only a fifth of my collection, mind you."

"...I did not know. Truly." I keep my hands to myself. "My father has a room like this. But he collects swords."

He smiles, and laughs softly through his nose. "Yeah. My dad collected beer bottles. Not quite so ambitious." He looks around at it all. "None of them are loaded, as you saw. But if you need to scare someone..." He pointed at a wall. "Hunting section. Go for a shotgun. I got buckshot, too. Won't kill him, but he won't come back. Strictly a warning."

I hug myself tightly. "...And if I need to scare you?"

He looked up at me. "I don't know. I'm usually pretty scared as is."

I consider that. I look over the things he buys to try and protect himself. Attempts to connect with a family that did not understand him... I reach out a hand to him. He moves to take it.

"Let us not be in here. This is not a place to linger in."

He follows me, and he switches off the light, closing the door. I lead him to the bedroom, and push open the door. When we are in, I point out the blue robe still on the floor to one side. "See this?" And to the small knapsack I had brought with me. "And that?" And then the bow in the corner. "And that?" I look to him. "Those are mine. I brought them here. And those shoes by the front."

He is staring at the bow. "...You're a shooter, too."

"Archer. But yes." I breathe. "I was trying not to wake you up."

"You didn't have lights on either."

"Because I like the dark." I smile weakly. "I am called dragon. I like cold and dark caves to sit in the quiet. You will learn this." I move to him and wrap my arms around him. "I am sorry. I did not know. This is your space. I am trespassing. I will do better."

He sighed, wrapping his arms around me. "I'm sorry, I... pulled a gun on you." He squeezed me. "I'm not used to having people here."

I had a thought. "Hai!" I push off from him! "Hold! The guns!" I point in that direction. "You keep them away, and not loaded. Yes?"

"Yeah. Less likely to use them that way."

"Hai!" I grin. "I have idea!" I turn in his arms, and he lets me go. He watches me, confused, and I grab my bow and quiver and tuck them over my shoulder. "Hai!"

He steps aside, confused, and watches me pick up his gun as well.

"What if... Instead of shoe rack!" I hold my bow to the wall. "We hang things here! My bow and quiver, then your guns and hat! Here!" I look over my shoulder to him, grinning.

He frowns at me, and I demonstrate with his gun, where the belt would go.

He crosses his arms, amused by me. "...I can see why I like you."

"I am very pretty _and_  very clever. You say so." I nod. I look back to the wall. "That way, you come home, you put gun and hat away, and I put bow and quiver away, and if anything happens, we have more time to stop each other." I clear my throat. "And I will not carry my knife in the house either."

His eyes widen. "You got a knife?"

"Usually." I turn back to him. "And... not to be rude, but I am quieter and quicker than you. I could ninja you first."

He blanches. "Yikes."

"This way! We are safe! We keep to fisticuffs. And by then, we are too distracted by bodies to do the killing." I do an attempt at his finger guns.

He snorts. "You are _adorable_."

"Hai! And very sleep deprived. You did not let me sleep." I pad back towards him. "Your other gun, please. And I will get the knife."

He fetches his gun sling and I dig in my robes for my knife. I spy him out of the corner of my eye, eyeing my backside. I pretend I do not notice. We put the guns in the kitchen with the quiver, and I make a note in case we forget when we are awake and sane again.

"Very good," I say. I come to him, arms outstretched, and he takes them. I lead him back to bed, and he slips in beside me, staring at me like I was some strange alien he had never met before. Which is true, it seems.

"There," I said quietly. I swallowed. "Tomorrow, you will remember me." He looks to me for answers, and I even take his left hand and set it on my hip. "You keep me safe. And happy."

The hand roams, and his eyes still watch me. There is that wonder and affection that is what makes me love his gorgeous chocolate eyes. I smile at him.

"I'll do my best." His hand moves over my waist, and up my back, and he gently scoops me closer. I nuzzle in close, and his arms wrap around me. "Thank you, Hanzo."

"Of course, McCree-san."

He clings to me tight. "...Nights like this, I'm always missing someone. This is the first time in a long time someone was here to steer me straight."

I nod, blinking away tears. "I did not know. You are usually so strong."

He gave a bitter laugh. "No, I lie. I lie a lot."

I think about the sad eyes I see when he thinks no one is watching, and I know he is right. "I know you do. I will get better at seeing through those lies."

He laughs in his nose, and loosens his grip. I look up at him, and he touches my face again... "When I say you're beautiful... I don't just mean you have a pretty face. Just so you know."

I clutch his shirt and bring him close again, and I kiss him. He answers immediately, arms tucking me tight and close, and I feel so warm and protected and safe in his arms... He sighs into me, and I nuzzle him.

"Mm..." He traces his fingers over my skin, and I shiver. "Maybe one night I will wake up, lost, and find you in my arms. And whatever I might not know... I'll know that I am safe and loved."

"In the meantime, I'm going to talk to Angie about memory repression."

"Hmm?"

"Mm. Nothing. Sleep, cowboy. You have had a rough night."

I listened to his breathing steady... and calming. I wanted to be sure he was asleep properly before I dared. But just as I was drifting off, he gave a grunt.  
I complained softly.

"The arm doesn't bother you?" he grumbled, groggy.

"Arm, desu?"

"The... metal arm."

"Only when it's very cold or very hot. Or very _late_. Go to sleep."

"Hmm."

More quiet, and I tried to sleep...

"...Did you say 'desu'?"

"I am Japanese! Go to sleep!" I slapped a piece of bare flesh and he yelped.

"You are _mean_."

"[I will show you mean]", I warned him. "[Next time you wake me, you will have wrath of the dragon,] now go to sleep!"

He chuckled. "...Yer really cute when you're angry."

"Baka!" I elbowed him, and he laughed, then moved on the blanket away from me.

"I bet that means 'idiot' or something..."

I inhaled noisily, and then out. "Good night, cowboy."

He just chuckled, and eventually drifted off to sleep.

I had a strange dream that night about being a teacher in school, but all of my students were younger members of Overwatch, and a clean faced baby version of my cowboy, who kept ask me what different Japanese words meant. I acted annoyed and told him to get back to class, but I secretly found it adorable. Until he asked what 'yaoi' was, and it turned into something completely different.

**Author's Note:**

> Mildly inspired by Mick St. John's army box (Moonlight - WATCH IT, it's amazing), a touch of PTSD, my bizarre love of momentary memory relapse (ESPECIALLY WHEN WE GOT SOMEONE WHO LOST AN ARM HERE) and a tiny suggestion that... Reaper is still running Blackwatch? Is Jesse crazy or confused? GUESS YOU WON'T KNOW. 
> 
> I also really love the horrifying theory that Jesse was a lefty before he lost his arm, and if he lost it in Blackwatch, it will be something "that never officially happened" but it had to have been something impressive if he earned a fucking OMNIC ARM for the duty, so I imagine that's a HUGE bomb of a story right there, and I'm going to skirt around it like the god damned Spaghetti Incident.
> 
> ...Even though I do actually know what "the Spaghetti Incident" was, in actuality, but that's a sick story I'm not going to share here.
> 
> And yes, writer is a Confederate apologist. My first love was a Georgia Peach/Tennessee boy whose mother as a member of the Daughters of the Confederacy and owned a period home two blocks away from Taft's full of period furniture that went to period balls.


End file.
